There is but little hope for slaves of fortune,Who will not share
their failures with their will.Mastered by the wind, they blame their
portionOn chance, which sets their course for good or ill.But
one's bad luck fits snug on who one is;One's fortune is the lyrics of
one's song.Each will find the label that is hisUpon the luggage he
has brought along.To be a cause, one must first admitThat one was
never merely an effect.Freedom comes to those who shoulder
it,Bearing weight that others would reject.Slaves believe they
read, while masters knowThey write, though angels sing and cold winds
blow.